Storm
by Wilhelmina Willoughby
Summary: L/J. It's not all sunshine and rainbows in the Gryffindor common room.


_A/N: This thing wouldn't let me sleep. I hope you guys like angry!James._

_As always,  
Mina :)_

_This is rated T for language and a little stuff at the end that I wasn't sure what it should be rated._

* * *

James Potter, soaking wet and shaking, storms into the common room. He usually doesn't like to storm about – Sirius, with his wicked Black genes, is much better adapted to storm and stomp and strut angrily about the castle whenever the mood strikes him – but James is furious. He is _livid_. He is on a mission, and he would feel bad for mowing over that faceless kid in the corridor except for the fact that he was moving from point A to point B with no deviations, no pedestrian right of way. He is a bull with one direction: red.

The Fat Lady is still muttering about his rudeness when he whisks into the room, his eyes immediately scanning every face, every head, for that familiar shock of hair. He's trying to listen for her over the raging blood in his veins, that high pitch of her voice, her soft laugh; so unassuming, he thinks, and he grips the slick handle of his broom tighter. She's not here. He doesn't know where else she could be. He can't think straight.

"James?" Remus says, and all James can think when Remus shuts his book and steps closer is how much he doesn't want to hear Remus' voice right now. At all.

"What," he grunts. It's not a question. It's just a word that means something else entirely to Remus – _leave me the fuck alone –_ because he immediately backs off and sits back down. His book is picked back up. James can tell without looking that he's not reading, but as long as he's not talking, everything will be fine.

_I can't believe her. _James starts to pace. It's the one phrase he sticks to, the few little words that keep him from smashing his broom into tiny pieces and throwing his Quidditch gear in the fire. _I can't bloody believe her._

And then she walks in. Her shirttails are untucked and she's got her tie loose around her neck and her hair is pulled away from her face just the way he likes it, but the only thing he can think of is how betrayed he feels. That, in turn, makes him even more angry, because he truly thought they were moving in a different direction this year; he thought they were done with all this shouting and rowing and bickering nonsense, but apparently not, because she seems fine, just fine with what she's done and he cannot _believe _her.

He resists the urge to rush up to her and grab her by the arms and shake the daylight out of her, though, something he later praises himself for. Instead, he allows her to walk up to him, through the wide gap between him and the other people in the common room, and stares down at her.

His voice is low. He's too angry to shout. "Are you _mental_?"

"I'm sorry?" Lily says, frowning, folding her arms across her chest. It's her immediate defensive stance, and he knows he's got her. He knows it, knows what her body language says, knows that the little line in between her eyebrows means she's simmering. He knows that this is going nowhere good.

"Are – you – mental," he bites out. "Do you know what you said to McGonagall? Do you know what she _did?_"

"Do you know where you were supposed to be tonight?" she counters. "There are _two _Head students, James. That means that the _two _Head students share _equal _responsibility. I can't do all this work by myself while you're off playing with your _balls _– "

"Playing with my balls," he says. His broom is dangerously heavy in his hand and he tosses it onto an armchair so that he's not tempted to smack her with it. "Playing with my balls! I can't – why – what is your bloody problem? I asked you for one night so that I could spend a little extra time with the team before the big game tomorrow – "

Where he grows more loud and uncomposed, she's pulling herself in, her lips tightening, her eyes narrowing, her hands grasping her arms too hard. A tiny part of him hates himself for yelling at her, but the other part, larger and so much more in control right now, is just so blindingly irate that he doesn't even want to look at her.

But she's staring holes into his forehead, so he makes himself glare.

"It's unscheduled time, James! We have work to do! You can't just let your work slip because you want to go toss a few Quaffles around the field!"

"I'm the _Captain!_" he roars, throwing his arms out.

Her jaw juts out obstinately. It's all over her face: _so what?_

Unconsciously he steps forward. A vice grips his upper arm and he can't resist the tug, so he takes a step back, breathes, closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at the reflecting fire in hers. He takes another step back, bumps into somebody's chest – it's Remus, he bets that it's Remus, nobody else would dare to touch him right now – and breathes, breathes, shakes his head. He cannot believe her.

Remus' voice is low in his ear. "Go outside. Now."

He's going. She doesn't move as he walks past her – even angry, he's careful not to slam into her with the heavy padding he's wearing – and he doesn't look back as he climbs through the portrait hole, ignoring the Fat Lady's call as he storms down random corridors, his mind in a torrent of everything he just wants to push away.

The biggest game of the year so far is tomorrow and he's not going to be able to play. McGonagall agrees with dearest Lily: Head duties should come before Captainship, and she's made him put in an alternate Chaser and name a sub-Captain for the next game so that he can get his priorities in order. He wants to shout or beat on the walls or prank Snivelly for a week straight because he never asked to be the Head Boy. He _asked _to be the Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team – he _wants _to be the Captain – he _enjoys _being the Captain. What is being the Head Boy but more responsibility and more meetings with the Prefects and late night patrol duties when all he really wants to do is sleep?

Remus eventually finds him brooding in a hidden alcove on the second story. Of course he does, James thinks, watching as he walks up with the Map in one hand and his lit wand in the other. James knows what he's going to say already; they've had this conversation before.

"That was stupid," Remus begins.

He leans against the wall beside James and stares at the moving dots on the Quidditch field. James' eyes are automatically drawn to his teammates' names, trying to imagine what techniques they're using, what formations they're practicing. He wonders if Sirius is doing okay in his place. He begins to get worked up again because he _knows _that Sirius is doing okay in his place. He's not jealous – he and Sirius can run plays together like they're psychic – he's just mad that he can't be out there, mad that it was Lily that sold him out.

"You need to learn to control yourself," Remus continues. "She feels horrible."

James pushes off the wall. "She should."

Remus doesn't follow this time. James sneaks back outside, into the night rain, hoping that McGonagall isn't watching him walk across the grounds to the pitch but knowing somehow that she is, and takes off his suffocating Quidditch gear in the locker room. Pads, chest guard, gloves, boots. He rips the goggles from around his neck and throws them into his locker, slams the door with more force than necessary. He wants to go and sit on the bleachers just to be able to watch but that won't help anything, so he strips everything and stands under the scalding shower for what feels like a really, really long time.

He wraps a towel around his waist and steps out, feeling slightly better and less like he wants to murder someone.

And then she walks in. She's wearing one of his old, baggy shirts and her plaid pajama pants that clash horribly with her hair, which is hanging damply in her face, and the only thing he can think of is how tired he is. He doesn't like fighting with her, especially now that they are a _them _and there's no reason for them to argue so much.

"Hey," she says, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

He holds out his hand. "Come on. You're going to get trampled by an exhausted Quidditch team if you just stand there."

She shuffles across the ground and takes his hand, both of them a little damp from the rain and from the shower, but she burrows her face into his chest anyway. He sighs at the same time she does, wraps his arms around her at the same time hers snake around his waist; he places his chin on the top of her head when she turns her cheek and presses herself against him. He's only in a towel and she's only in her pajamas and he can tell she's not wearing a bra, and at one point this would've been a big deal – a _big deal – _but it doesn't even matter anymore, not when he knows her like this.

"Sorry," she mumbles into his skin.

It sinks in, right to his heart, melts his anger away, makes him feel like shit. "I don't deserve you."

Her soft laughter shakes them both. "After all that work you did to get to this point, James Potter? Say it isn't so."

"Work? Apparently I'm a lazy bastard," he quips. It's a little bitter and they both know it, but he needs to vent, even if it's just snide little comments that she'll use against him later.

She doesn't snap like she wants to, though. Not right now. She lets him hold her and hopes that maybe that's enough. "I know it means a lot to you, being Captain," she whispers, feeling like she needs to be quiet with this. "I know you worked hard for it. But I need help sometimes."

He nods. He kisses the part in her hair. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, McGonagall managed to save his relationship.

"Okay, mates: good practice tonight," he hears Sirius shout. They're right outside the locker room and Lily moves to pull away when James tightens his arms.

Sirius is the first one in, and the minute he sees James' face, the way Lily is wrapped up in him like a swaddled baby, he turns right back around and shouts to his team, "About face! There's one more maneuver we need to go over. I just came up with it. It's daring and dangerous and bloody brilliant and it's definitely going to win us the game, so get your asses out there without complaining or I'm going to bench you."

"I have homework!"

"Are you _mad? _It's ten o'clock at night!"

"Bloody arse."

"It's raining harder now! Can we please just quit for the night?"

"I SAID ABOUT FACE! GO!" Sirius bellows above the grumbles. "ON YOUR BROOMS!"

Lily starts giggling. James feels her short breaths against his chest and smiles as Sirius peeks his head back in the door.

"Alright, Prongs?" he asks.

James nods at his best friend, presses his hands into his girlfriend's back a little tighter, and manages to laugh. Sirius is better at storming around anyway, he thinks, closing his eyes.

* * *


End file.
